


all i can think about is you

by sitandadmire



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Comfort Food, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry loves the moon & pain, Jealousy, Lots of ocean imagery and brooding TBH, M/M, Mild Language, Musician Zayn, Neighbors, Niall likes parties and isn't in the fic nearly enough, Past Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Songwriter Harry, Switching, Tattoo Artist Zayn, i think??, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-10 11:25:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sitandadmire/pseuds/sitandadmire
Summary: "Harry turns around expecting to see a smaller version of Zayn sitting atop the sand in the distance, waiting for him to come back, but he’s gone. There’s something moving in the haunting celestial light instead. It must be Zayn, but Harry can’t be completely sure until the figure comes closer and… it is."Or: Harry returns to the beachfront house he once shared with his famous ex-boyfriend, Louis Tomlinson. Enter Zayn, who just moved in next door and helps him forget everything.





	all i can think about is you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mmaree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/gifts).



> Title from Coldplay's newest song "All I Can Think About Is You", the essence and sound of which sum up this fic so perfectly. Holy shit. [Listen here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnLNG0WnGsI)
> 
> To: mmaree, I hope you enjoy this fic and it's close enough to what you imagined! Your prompts were great and I wish I could have done all of them. (In another life where I'm an expert fic writer).
> 
> A HUGE thanks to my beta ([Eve](http://drunkftharry.tumblr.com)) who worked v hard with me to make this fic possible!!!! It would not be anywhere near its final form without the help. Thank you for all of your constructive comments, your time, and for making me feel like I shouldn't give up. <33
> 
> Content note: Louis has a few lines via telephone. That's it. No flashbacks or full scenes where he's present. Mostly it's references to Harry's past!relationship with him (in the beginning) for plot reasons. Still, if that sounds like it would be an issue for you, now is probably a good time to stop reading :^)
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction for personal use and not for profit. It is not associated with any member of (or anyone related to) One Direction or Zayn Malik. I do not own any brands mentioned. It has not been brit-picked. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Lastly, shout out to the moderator of the Spring 2017 exchange, without whom it wouldn't exist. Thank you for your hard work these last few months.  
> & WITHOUT FURTHER ADO....... !!! ENJOY

Harry wakes up on a morning when the sun is so bright he thinks it's a dream at first. Everything's floating and soft. He doesn't lift his head, just stares at the white ceiling through the microscopic bits of dust before realizing that he forgot to pull the heavy curtains closed. He blinks slowly, tilting his head to the right where he gently rubs his face with his hand.

It takes a minute to pull himself up into a seated position. The covers bundle lifelessly around his waist. They don't fit the bed like the other sheets used to, but it was everything he could find.

Harry doesn't look at the beach or anything on it, instead follows the lines of the room and the smooth, dark wood floor until it becomes tile. He involuntarily shivers as he pulls the thin door open. It starts to rain inside the glass box.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror while he waits for the water to warm, tired purple brushed and forgotten beneath his eyes, a knit in his brow. The person staring back at him looks as empty as the house was when he pulled up on his motorcycle, kicked out the stand, took his helmet off, and fumbled at the lock before opening the front door.

After, he descends the stairs and stands in the renovated kitchen. His hand hovers above the fridge handle, out of habit, until he realizes there's probably nothing in it. It might not even be on.

Harry listens for the comforting hum, but it's not there. He runs his hands down the side then, trying to wiggle it out from the wall a couple of inches, and eventually gets the plug into the socket. Feeling a slight ache between his shoulder blades, Harry leans his still damp forehead against the stainless steel.

 _I'll go to the market later,_ Harry thinks to himself. He makes another mental note, a reminder, not to glance at any gossip magazines.

So what now?

Harry pushes off the cool metal and turns around, facing the living room windows. Sometimes he hates the open concept the designers used to build the house. Especially now. The execution of it, the way there's nowhere else to go.

But, on the other hand, it's beautiful and simple, and Harry does his best to keep the memories buried in shallow ground out of his mind as he walks past the couch. Pulling the curtains back, more light floods his senses. He squints a little, letting his eyes adjust to the unforgiving landscape. There's not a single cloud in sight today, it seems. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

Harry doesn't know what exactly it is that causes him to start moving again.

He's been sitting on the rug, right in front of the couch, staring at the movement of the tide and halfheartedly scrolling through old pictures and texts on his phone. Maybe it's the silly questions he types into Google, as if a billion-dollar tech program can patch his life together. Or simply, it’s just the idea it gives him. He sets the phone to play a tune from a different decade and gets up, leaving it on the floor.

Instantly the music fills the room.

Harry digs around in one of the cabinets below the sink, then peeks into a tall closet in the hallway until he finds a good cardboard box. It's time to get rid of the things that got left behind.

He starts on the first floor, but there isn’t much around except for a gold picture frame. Still tucked behind the glass is a snapshot from one of their many private holidays. He remembers how warm it was that night, how they’d spent all day swimming and drinking too much. Their smiles are so bright and unknowing that he doesn't recognize himself.

The frame thuds emptily against the inside of the box.

Upstairs, Harry considers destroying a teddy bear until he realizes he doesn't want to give in, doesn't want life to make him as cruel as he feels he could be right now. It stares at him with round beady eyes, like it knows secrets of the universe, and a tiny stitched-on mouth that will never change. He squeezes the end of its paw, then lets go of the soft fur.

He finds a few other things, including a half-empty bottle of cologne. It instantly reminds him of Brighton, the particular saltiness of the sea, and how he wouldn't let either of them leave that weekend without something similar to the scent. Something to remember how in love they were.

There's a lump in Harry's throat, thick and unforgiving. He ignores it and keeps going. He manages to dig up a jumper from behind a chair, with sleeves that seem odd and too long for its shape.

That's it. There's nothing else, save for the couch in the living room.

Sudden laughter bubbles out of his mouth when he's back downstairs, eyeing it for a moment, imagining himself trying to push the thing through the doorway alone - all of the neighbors be damned - and straight to the curb.

Finally, Harry opens the front door and glances around. It doesn't seem like anyone's paying attention to him. Not even the birds nearby. He descends the steps and walks across the paved driveway, boots clacking lightly against the concrete, until he reaches the side gate.

Just as he leans over the top to undo the lock with a code, Harry loses his grip on the box and it slips out from underneath his arm, falling to the ground.

"Shit," he mutters, watching as it lands on its side, the contents spilling out like fresh guts.

"Need help, mate?" a voice asks out of nowhere.

It makes his heart beat faster.

"Uh," Harry says before glancing up.

There's a figure standing in the neighboring yard, looking over the short fence. He clears his throat when they approach and repeat the same words, and Harry can see hair as dark as night along with warm hazel eyes. The accent sounds like home, except it must be from a few towns over at the very least. The expression appears to be a cross between patience and friendliness.

One of those qualities Harry lacks. (Not that he's capable of admitting it to other people.)

Shaking his head, he breaks himself out of the temporary, ridiculous reverie.

"I’m fine, thanks."

"No problem."

Glass clinks and crunches beneath Harry's feet as he bends down into a kneeling position and starts putting everything back. The teddy bear is partially spotted, probably due to the cologne. Poor thing. Harry swears there's a curious breath of laughter behind him.

It's no more than a minute later that the sound of footsteps approaching fills his ears and there's someone next to him. Harry glances over to see a pair of jeans - tight jeans, fuck - legs kneeling down beside his and long fingers holding a brush and metal dust pan out towards him. He looks up and tries to smile.

"For the glass."

Harry lets his breath go in order to answer.

"Right."

They work silently, together, until everything is in a pile of old memories inside a box that Harry can't wait to get rid of. He thinks for a moment about donating the clothing to charity perhaps, but realizes with the mess and glass now, it's too late. He inhales, making a silent promise to donate anything else he finds in the house later.

"Thank you," Harry says, waiting for a name.

The stranger must catch his expression and presses a hand to their chest.

"Sorry, I'm Zayn. You must think I'm mad or somethin'".

Zayn.

Lovely name.

"Not at all." He laughs. "I'm Harry. Good to meet you."

They shake hands, Zayn's skin is quite soft much to Harry's surprise, and Harry's - well, trying to ignore the fact that he's proper fit.

"D'you live around here?" Harry asks, feeling a warmth at his cheeks.

Zayn points a thumb over his shoulder towards the house next door.

"Just closed on it last week."

Shit. So, this guy lives next door.

"Oh. That’s cool."

Zayn smiles then, with a slight shrug, and Harry can't do anything else but force himself to stand up lest he keep staring at someone he doesn't know a thing about. He focuses on pulling the box up, and sets it more tightly against his hip this time, before turning back to the space beyond the gate. It takes a minute to get it lifted inside the garbage bin. Harry’s fingers are curled underneath the bottom, still holding it on both sides, until the plastic edge digs into his armpits and he has no choice but to let go.

The lid shuts too loudly.

When Harry turns around, Zayn's already back on the other side of the fence. He waves one hand at Harry as if to say "see you later" and Harry lifts a couple fingers in the air in a sort of half-wave. His stomach grumbles then, painfully, and he realizes that he hasn't had anything to eat since dinner the night before.

"Wait," Harry says without thinking.

He jogs over to the fence.

Zayn's almost at the front door. He retraces his invisible footsteps, going back down the path, but this time veering away onto the small patch of grass so that he can meet Harry at the barrier.

The words spill out.

"I - I don't live here. I mean. It's a long story and you're new -" Harry pauses, with his mouth open and probably looking ridiculous. “I haven't got any food, to be honest. We could go get breakfast.”

He clears his throat.

“If you want?"

Zayn's face holds an expression that's impossible to read, but he agrees.

They debate for a moment whether to take Zayn's car, and Harry’s never driven that exact type of car, or Harry's motorcycle. Of course Zayn could just drive his _own_ car to keep things simple and Harry’s babbling about the street parking being difficult is surely only to himself. Maybe it's an excuse for him to feel in control.

Zayn suggests it would probably be faster overall to take the bike. Harry isn't sure if he's got another helmet somewhere, but he finds one. Zayn nods, rubbing at the stubble on his chin with one hand, as if to say that riding with a complete stranger in nothing new.

Zayn's arms are tight around Harry's mid-section as they drive straight down the Pacific coast, weaving carefully past a few vehicles that are not fast enough, not malleable like they are. On the edge of danger, his older sister used to say. They stop abruptly once, which causes the said grip around Harry's body to tighten, and he hears an apology slip into the air behind him. He doesn't reply, just repositions his hands against the handles and looks straight ahead.

When they get there, Harry reaches for the door at the same time Zayn does. He looks down at their hands before letting go.

"After you," he says.

 _Get it together, Styles,_ Harry chides himself, _he's your neighbor and a stranger, at that_ . _You don't know anything about his life except that somehow, he's ended up here with you._

He picks a table for the two of them in the back corner, away from where most of the other customers are seated. It's pretty late, so the earliest birds have all eaten and flown away. Zayn reaches for a plastic menu standing between the maple syrup and ketchup. Harry takes a second to drink in Zayn’s appearance. He notes a white t-shirt with a complex design he’s never seen, a jacket on top, and a tattoo right on Zayn's collarbone barely peeking out from behind the fabric.

Zayn meets Harry's curious gaze with slightly raised eyebrows. Harry tries to shake off the odd feeling under his skin and wiggles in his seat.

“So… what’s good here?” Zayn asks.

"Everything."

Zayn smiles at that.

"Literally everything?"

"Yep."

Silence. Harry's phone buzzes against his thigh, but he doesn't move to check it.

"Okay. What's your favorite?" Zayn continues.

Harry pulls his bottom lip up between his teeth while he thinks; about the food, but about the memories too. How they seem to follow him everywhere. Of different people he's known, most that have disappeared so quickly, and sometimes he isn't sure how to be at peace with this particular fact of life. He thinks then about fresh strawberries and coffee and a lopsided grin smacks its way onto his face.

Harry leans forward eagerly, elbows on the edge of the table.

A waitress comes over with a messy notepad a moment later. She seems cheerful and asks for their order. Harry gestures for Zayn to go ahead and tell her what he wants, but Zayn doesn't say anything and stalls. So Harry orders two #4s, with bacon on the side just in case, and a small coffee for himself.

"A water for me," Zayn finally chimes in to say. "Cheers."

Harry's phone buzzes again.

"Do you always do that?"

"What?" Harry answers. "Order food?"

"No." Zayn chuckles. "That thing. With the... y'know, smile."

He tries to imitate the grin Harry must have been showing the waitress and the way he spoke calmly, almost too gently for the deep tone of his voice. It’s absurd. Harry doesn't know what else to do but laugh back. He curls up his shoulders and lets out a prolonged sound of doubt.

"I dunno. Maybe?"

Zayn hums and puts the menu back. His hands disappear under the table. Harry wonders if they're sitting on his knees. He doesn't stare at the pale wood of the surface for more than a few seconds before he feels an opportunity to quell his curiosity.

"So, are you in L.A. alone?"

"Yeah," Zayn replies rather easily, "Most of my family's back in England. But my sister's business is doing well. She helped me get the place."

He gestures towards the glass window with one hand, even though they’re currently miles away from both of the houses.

"Well, congrats to you. And your sister, too."

"Guess so."

"Is it just the one...?"

Zayn snorts, picking up a sugar packet.

"Definitely not. I've got three sisters."

Oh. "I see. I’ve only got one. Her name's Gemma."

"Do you miss her?"

A corner of Harry's heart twinges unexpectedly, even though they spoke over FaceTime last week for longer than the promised hour, and Harry got to see her new tabby cat named Sparkles.

“Maybe she’ll visit soon,” Zayn says.

Harry wants to tell Zayn that the house doesn't really feel like home anymore and he doesn't want his family anywhere near it. Things are different. Uncertain. But he doesn't get a chance to when the waitress comes back with a tray carrying their drinks. Harry murmurs a thank you as the filled mug is set in front of him, steam lazily trailing off its top.

He glances up at Zayn.

“Yeah, maybe," Harry answers. He reaches for a bit of cream.

They talk casually for a while, perhaps too long, about the pleasure of living right on the beach. What else there is to do around town.

The food arrives. It smells heavenly.

Zayn tells Harry that he's just gotten a job at a tattoo shop, but what he really wants is to get into the music scene. Like writing and producing his own stuff. It's always been a dream of his, but it hasn’t happened yet. There might be more color in Harry's eyes then, if he could see anything other than a silhouette in his own glassy reflection. He laughs in disbelief, admitting that he has always hoped to do the same thing someday.

Then it's quiet again, Zayn sitting on the motorcycle behind Harry as they speed through traffic and back to where everything started. It feels nice and simple, although there's a voice in the back of Harry's mind telling him he's being too friendly, trusting Zayn despite that they've only just met.

***

Over two weeks go by in a blur before Harry sees Zayn again. Zayn's standing outside his place, a lit cigarette between his shadowed fingers, blowing white smoke into the air. Harry runs his hands through his own hair as it's getting quite long now and looks up at the sky.

The moon is bright.

Harry decides to hop the fence, instead of walking around like a lazy arse, and nearly loses his balance. By some miracle he manages to remain upright. He laughs.

"Hey," Harry finally says to Zayn once he's in the glow of the artificial light.

Zayn lowers his cigarette and flicks the end just barely.

"Hey, you smoke?"

Harry shakes his head and wets his dry, cracked lips. He used to get caught up in the bright lights and the indulgence that was never too far behind, as it was the kind of life usually at your fingertips when you dated a celebrity, but one day it stopped being fun.

Harry watches Zayn take a couple more drags then drops the last piece onto the ground, stepping on it with his foot. It sits on the concrete, smashed and already forgotten.

"How 'bout a drink?"

To that, Harry grins.

The quiet and warm inside is a stark contrast to the minimalist design of the outside. Harry stands in the small foyer just beyond the door and glances into the kitchen, which Zayn wanders into without looking over his shoulder. Harry lets his gaze wander past the dividing wall and to the living room.

There's a wooden table off to one side, an L-shaped couch further back, with a spotted rug underneath the glass table that makes up the belly of the space. A television hangs along the wall across, next to some framed artwork, and there's what seems to be deconstructed stacks of books and old records floating around everywhere. It looks cosy. There's also a few socks and things strewn about that he can't identify, but they feel personal, and it makes Harry check out the floor instead.

Zayn pops his head out of the kitchen.

"Harry?"

"Oh, sorry, yeah - just a beer. Whatever you've got."

Zayn nods and disappears.

Their bottles clink together after they pop the tops off and have a silent toast in the hallway. The air feels a bit thick. Harry looks around again, but doesn't know whether he should sit down or wait for Zayn to say something. For some reason, he feels like he’s been dragged back to being seventeen and trying his hardest. Living in Cheshire and being weak behind the knees.

After they both get a couple of good sips down, Zayn looks over at him.

"Wanna sit outside?” Zayn suggests.

"Hell yes. Sweet."

As soon as the glass door slides open the cool and salty air, brought to life by a boundless breeze, fills his lungs. Harry sighs, taking another sip from his bottle and waiting for the sound of the door sliding shut.

He sways a little where he stands, silently reminding himself to relax. He could use a new friend and actually enjoying a night off wouldn’t hurt.

Here’s hoping.

Zayn moves past Harry, hand wrapped around the neck of his beer, before sitting down past the main patio area on a substantial mound of sand. They can't take the alcohol much further really and should pick up the empty bottles when they're done.

For a moment, with the distant rush of the tide and whisper of the wind tickling at his neck, Harry can hear an echo of people cheering and laughing at one of the parties he used to throw next door. He joins Zayn on the sand, awkwardly trying to gauge where to place himself to keep enough distance between them.

"’S nice out," Zayn comments.

Harry nods this time and feels a push inside his chest to say more, but he holds back.

"Yeah. It's really beautiful."

He drinks.

Zayn asks Harry how work has been lately, and Harry answers that it’s been fucking awful, but he needs all of the hours that he can get. It’s an old restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, where everything’s overpriced and doomed by a vintage theme, and it makes him miss the record shop. At least he was better friends with the main manager there.

He drinks more.

All that he’s written in his spare time, songs, poems, everything is tucked inside journals and napkins and old pillowcases. It isn’t doing him any good. Sometimes there’s ink on his fingertips for days later.

“What about your music?” Harry asks.

Zayn shrugs.

“It’s, uh, good. I did a couple of songs last month. Roughly though, y’know? I’ve been busy at the shop and it’s different living here.”

“I always forget what time it is,” Harry murmurs in agreement, sticking the mostly drained beer bottle in the sand, twisting it until it’s weighed down enough. “Well, maybe you just need inspiration.”

“Like what?” Zayn replies.

Harry reaches for the sky, which feels good, before stretching out on top of the sand and crossing his bare feet at the ankle. He can barely see the handwritten tattoo on one of them. He clears his throat, looks over at Zayn, and says in a dramatic voice:

“The moon.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn mutters instantly, tilting his head back to finish the beer.

Harry laughs from his center, loud and good and clear - his hands resting atop his stomach like there’s nothing to worry about. He looks up at the sky and can’t believe how painless this feels, despite the nervous knot somewhere in his neck. Zayn brings up the latest film releases (which ones he loves or hasn’t seen at all) and tells a couple of stories from back when he was still at university. One story ends up involving a tin bucket and some old twine.

It’s twenty minutes - possibly an hour - later when Harry’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at the bright screen, squinting slightly.

Buzz.

Buzz.

He wishes for a split second he couldn’t recognize those numbers despite them not being saved in his phone anymore. With Zayn silently watching him (or maybe he’s not, maybe Harry’s the most boring thing that’s ever happened to him) and a burn slowly creeping up his cheeks, Harry sits up. The buzzing finally stops.

His breath feels pinched.

_(1) new voicemail_

“Sorry. I’ve got to take this.”

The closer he gets to the ocean water, the heavier the irritating, uncontrollable beat of his heart feels inside his chest. Harry flexes one hand as the ground passes under him in a blur. Sand sinks in between his toes. Eventually, he clumsily enters his pass code and presses the device to his ear.

“Hi. Um. Harry, it’s me.”

Slight pause. There’s some background noise Harry can’t make out, but still, every syllable of the familiar Donny accent is clear and sharp.

“Anyway, one of m’ mates went by the L.A. house last week and saw a bike outside. Sent me a text. I… figured maybe it was you. So yeah, call me? Please.”

The phone beeps to indicate the end of the message and then, there’s nothing but empty air surrounding Harry.

_Please._

He squeezes his eyes shut and turns around a couple times, making marks in the sand with his clumsy beer-driven feet, trying to find the string of unexpected words inside his mind and tug on them until they’re gone.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

He should’ve thought to let somebody know, someone reliable who could pass on simple word to his ex that he was going to be staying there. At least for a little while. Until he can find somewhere else to go. He feels bloody lost and found at the same time.

“Fuck!”

The scream is raw against his throat.

Maybe he can call his mum, go back to Cheshire. She would love that.

Harry opens his eyes and turns around expecting to see a smaller version of Zayn sitting atop the sand in the distance, waiting for him to come back, but he’s gone. There’s something moving in the haunting celestial light instead. It must be Zayn, but Harry can’t be completely sure until the figure comes closer and... it is.

It is.

Harry nods to him once they’re close to each other, even though Zayn doesn’t say anything, just mouths words that don’t quite reach his ears. There’s a twist of concern in Zayn’s brow.

Maybe he’s trying to figure out why Harry’s not running straight into the ocean, just floating in between. Waiting. Harry puts his phone back into his pocket, slides his fingers through his unruly damp hair, once and sharply, then starts walking back.

He thinks he hears his name called out into the wind.

Once Harry gets back inside Zayn’s place, Zayn follows suit shortly after, taking care to slide the door shut behind them.

The lock clicks. He should go.

“Everything alright?” Zayn asks. He sounds unsure.

“I don’t know,” Harry says simply, before adding, “Goodnight, Zayn.”

But he’s not looking at Zayn as he leaves, doesn’t want to admit the fact that everything’s transforming into something new, bones and all, and it’s scaring the shit out of him. Harry keeps going, putting one foot in front of the other, his chest heaving slightly with uneven breaths, until he’s back and climbing the stairs to the master bedroom. He realizes once he’s taken a good, long shower and collapsed onto the bed, that he didn’t thank Zayn for being there.

***

A few days later the sun seems a little shy, dancing behind thick curves of endless white clouds. Harry’s not working until that evening after a last second trade with a pushy co-worker. He certainly didn’t feel like arguing about it.

Barefoot, Harry peeks out through the round window in the kitchen. He smiles when he sees movement and pushes off the tiled counter. He stops to prop the sliding back door open with a lonely shoe he bends down to pick up, before walking over to Zayn’s place.

It takes one knock for an answer.

“Hi,” Harry chirps.

Zayn yawns without a word, shaking his head, a sheepish smile breaking out onto his face. He’s got a grey t-shirt on, a dark pair of pants, and appears to be carrying a small bag at his side.

“Sorry. Hi.”

“Have a minute?” Harry asks, hopeful.

“I’m actually headed out,” Zayn admits, glancing at the silver watch on his wrist. It’s endearing to see someone still wearing one of those things. “A few of us are doing this huge back piece. Takes a while.”

Impressed, Harry raises his eyebrows.

“Wow. Nice.”

He would love to watch Zayn work. Not in a stalker kind of way, he thinks to himself, but a genuinely curious one. Harry’s always found it interesting to see people buried in the things they’re good at.

“But I should be home Friday night,” Zayn offers to Harry’s surprise, “if you like pizza.”

“I happen to love it,” Harry answers, “I’ll bring some wine.”

“Very posh,” Zayn comments, adjusting the bag strap on his shoulder, and it makes Harry laugh too suddenly. He says goodbye again because he’s holding Zayn back from the rest of the world.

Turning away feels better than it did the previous night.

***

Friday doesn’t arrive quickly enough. The extra time leaves Harry to think about the voicemail and given his instantaneous reaction, he should probably say something to Zayn. But just how much?

The question follows him around the rest of week as he goes through the motions of doing laundry, going to work, clocking out, and staring at the horizon. All he’d properly explained before was that he was seeing someone when he moved to LA. One of his mates from Cheshire sends him something on Instagram that, utterly bored one morning, makes him howl with laughter.

Exactly one minute past seven pm, Harry presses the doorbell once.

He clears his throat and looks at the faint lines in front of him of long-dried paint. One hand is holding a bottle of red wine with a dark purple label. It’s a funny contrast to the beach shorts he’s wearing, and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt.

The outside air is cool, sharp, like it has somewhere it needs to go.

Harry feels like he’s getting used to this seeing-Zayn-on-the-other-side-thing. It makes his lip twitch as he says hello. Zayn jerks his head, a casual beckon for Harry to step inside. He murmurs a greeting that floats past Harry’s shoulder and somehow sends a spit of warmth to the center of Harry’s chest.

They set the wine on the kitchen counter, pull up a number on Zayn’s phone, and order a large pizza with a good handful of toppings (mostly vegetables). Harry asks in a whispered voice for sun-dried tomatoes at the last second and smiles when Zayn moves the phone close to his mouth to repeat the request.

“I can’t wait,” Harry concludes, “It sounds delish.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and it won’t take all night.”

“Zayn,” Harry interjects with a laugh, “It’s busy everywhere. Quite literally.”

Zayn shrugs.

“I like to put positive vibes out into the universe.”

“Hm.” Pause. “Does it work?”

“Not if you ask questions like that.”

Harry frowns a little, but nods and reaches for an empty wine glass. It doesn’t stay untouched forever, eventually becoming covered in greasy fingerprints and drowning in refills. He loses track after the third tasting of how much alcohol he’s had. There’s a cloud of silence over their heads as they eat.

It’s not uncomfortable, simply different. Harry can see a slight red stain on Zayn’s lips from across the table, whether from the meal or something else, but he doesn’t say anything, eyes flickering away. He tries to focus on the artwork instead, then, finally, on the words that start to drift out of his mouth.

“Listen, about the other night,” Harry says. It truly feels like now or never.

Zayn looks up at Harry from over the rim of the glass. It’s cute. He sets it down on cue, pressing his lips together and rubbing them against each other for a moment. Zayn gestures to let him know that he’s listening.

“I shouldn’t have run off,” Harry continues, leaning against the table to put familiar pressure against his body, “I’m sorry. It’s just, um.”

There’s a long pause until Harry says: “I haven’t heard his voice in awhile.”

“Uh, whose?”

“My ex’s. There was a message.”

“Harry,” Zayn cuts in, sliding the wine glass closer to the middle of the table, “you don’t have to, like, tell me anything. It’s not my business.”

“But haven’t you seen it? On telly? At the shops on those bloody -”

His hand curls into a fist. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, too, at the thought of all the headlines from the press, swirling around like a collage sinking into a toilet bowl. The wine is starting to hit him somewhere behind the eyes.

“ _M_ _egastar Louis Tomlinson Splits From Longtime Boyfriend_ ” was one of the more polite headlines to emerge when it first happened.

Harry tries to keep himself away from the rest. Especially the online ones that accused him - accused both of them actually, with different stories and claims of photographic evidence - of cheating among other things. It was all ridiculous garbage. At least, given what Harry understood to be the truth.

“I think my mum had a magazine in her kitchen. Just before I left.” Zayn shrugs. “I never read it though.”

Harry swallows.

“You didn’t read it?”

“No.”

“Okay. Um, thanks I suppose.”

Harry doesn’t really know how to stop himself now that it’s in the open air again, maybe for one of the last times of his life, maybe not. His heart beats anxiously inside his chest.

He takes a deep breath.

“We… loved each other, you know? Like, we really did. I spent a lot of time with Louis and I changed so much. Not always in the best way. I don’t know. Sometimes things dissolve and you can’t get them back.”

“Yeah. I feel that.”

“He wanted more energy, projects all the time, and a family to boot. I couldn’t keep up.”

Harry pauses to let a humorless laugh escape his throat. Delicate water threatens to line his eyes and if he keeps talking about this, he knows he will cry. Especially in front of Zayn, the one person he’s slowly been letting into his life.

“It was a mutual decision in the end.”

Harry blinks.

“To say goodbye.”

There’s a vulnerable itch creeping up his spine, but Harry clears his throat again and makes a gesture in the air with one hand that feels more like a nervous spasm. None of it really matters anymore.

It is what it is.

He reaches for the wine glass, greedily sucking down the remaining color. Zayn leans over for Harry’s hand and barely touches it in solace. His skin is warm.

“Hey. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Thump. Thump. Harry feels like he can smile a little despite the chaos between his ribs. “Unless there’s no ice cream in that freezer of yours.”

Zayn sighs, and breathes out a half laugh at the way Harry suddenly switched topics, then stands up. He goes over to the fridge and leans over to dig around in the bottom section, which makes a weird suction sound as the door separates. Zayn finally wiggles the carton in the air triumphantly where Harry can see it.

“Just a small scoop,” Harry groans, rubbing his stomach. He always forgets how full he feels when he eats too many carbs, until he’s gone and eaten them again. He burps and Zayn does too, so they chuckle at each other and stop eating after a couple more minutes, then stand at the sink to do the dishes.

Harry notices that Zayn has a dishwasher built into one of the cabinets nearby, but he doesn’t make a move to use it.

When Harry gets home, a couple of hours later, he decides to call Louis back. It’s the right thing to do after all, even though he doesn’t know what goddamn time zone he’s in.

_“Hello?”_

Harry tells Louis plainly that he’ll pay partial rent, as much as he can afford right now, and he understands if he wants to sell the property soon. Harry just needs a bit of time. There’s no arguing for once. Another line, maybe one of the assistants, tries to get through to Louis before Harry can really ask how he’s doing and suddenly, it’s over.

Harry can’t help but sob for a bit after, the dial tone ringing in his ears until his body feels lighter and quieter. Like everything he’s been holding in has finally slipped past the glass windows and disappeared.

***

“Do you surf?” Zayn asks, leaning against the frame of his back door, a hand scratching at where one of his handwritten tattoos is across his hip, a blue mug tucked in the other.

Harry turns around, surprised to hear Zayn’s voice. They keep running into each other. Not every day of course, as time goes by and Zayn settles into the neighborhood, but it’s pretty easy when you’re mere steps away. Harry must look a bit silly though, standing around the back of the house, running his hands in a quiet rhythm over bright, vertical stripes and nearly cradling the surfboard to his chest at its widest point.

“Nope,” he says back, with a slight squint as he glances over, “Christmas present.”

It made him feel rather guilty to set eyes on it again as it’s been a few years since Anne and Robin chipped in to get it for him - and he hasn’t used it once. Kept it hidden away and let it gather dust instead.

There’s a noncommittal hum as Zayn lifts the mug to slurp.

“What about you?”

“No. I don’t surf either,” Zayn notes. He doesn’t offer an explanation.

“We live on the fucking beach.” The curse word comes out in a near whisper and Harry feels a dimple forming on his cheek after he says it.

Zayn fingers at his own morning hair.

“Yeah. Ironic.”

“I love being in water though,” Harry continues, looking out at the tide now. “Feels like you’re made of nothing.”

Zayn sets down his mug then, or at least, that’s what it sounds like. It causes Harry to break his gaze on the ocean and turn to fixate it on something, somehow, even more beautiful. He watches as Zayn pulls off his t-shirt in one swift motion.

“Um,” Harry squeaks, “Why are you doing that?”

Zayn’s skin is a poured, smooth shade of olive, except for the mixed canvas of gray and black lines creating their own angles. The tattoos snake down his rib cage on one side and disappear under his shorts. He’s got a few on his upper arms too that Harry didn't know existed, including what looks like some type of flower.

“Hard to swim with clothes on,” is all Zayn says, kicking off his slippers that look like alligators happily eating one’s feet and flashing Harry a cheeky grin that disappears in a near blur as he takes off proper running towards the ocean.

Harry’s mouth is slightly agape, watching Zayn shrink across the sand. He’s waving his arms like a bird in flight, his cheers echoing.

Incredible.

Harry loses his balance as he starts to back away, eyes still locked on the lovely dancing man ahead, bumping into the patio table only to realize he’s still holding onto the surfboard. The tips of his fingers are going white.

He exhales softly and goes to put it somewhere safe lest it poke him in the eye.

 _Someday I’ll do it_ , he promises himself.

The fresh salt burns. Harry bobs out of the water, feet barely able to stand now that they’re deep enough into the ocean. Zayn’s floating a short distance away, leaning back in trust, using his arms like slow little rudders. Harry chuckles and pushes wet hair out of his eyes, before pinching at his nose.

“Regretting it yet?” Zayn calls out.

“No.” Harry watches Zayn in the water and feels his heartbeat slowing after stripping down to his shorts, and running over the sand to race the wind too. “Not at all.”

Zayn smiles widely, eyes closed now.

“Good,” he says.

Harry glances back at the shore, then looks around at the rhythm of the waves, trying to gauge how strong the tide is today. Luckily it’s rather calm. He turns back to Zayn, who seems miraculously more comfortable than Harry at the moment, who is again left with no words.

Zayn opens his eyes and shifts his position so he’s not lying back anymore. He stares straight at Harry. His expression softens. There’s wet hair stuck to his cheek and Harry’s about to reach up and fix it for him when -

“I used to be afraid of the water,” Zayn admits, “when I was a kid. Thought I’d drift away and never come back.”

It feels like Harry’s turn to listen. He wipes at his salty mouth.

“Then once, I was on holiday with my family. All my sisters, y’know. Mum and Dad. No one was watching me for a bit and I just…wanted to try it. ‘Course it was a disaster.”

“What happened?”

“I guess I was crying and flailing round,” Zayn continues, with brief pauses in between to catch his breath, “Turns out I’d managed to get close enough to the shore to stand. Mum said to me after, these exact words: “My love, you didn’t need us. You saved yourself.”

Harry feels like he’s holding his own breath.

“That’s-” he manages a moment later, “that’s really something.”

Zayn nods at Harry.

“Now I figure, life’s a lot like this ocean. More than any of us can fucking imagine, but we can still make it.”

He tries to picture young Zayn, scared, alone but not really, thinking everything wasn’t going to work out. That he’d be swallowed whole by the vast ocean. But something protected him, whether his own instincts or actions, or something greater, Harry will never know. The only thing he can fully grasp is that Zayn’s meant to be here, now, in the water again and Harry’s nothing short of grateful.

“We’ll be okay,” Harry finishes. “Positive vibes.”

Zayn grins.

“Exactly.”

They swim for a little while, trying to agree on the best released album from the past year, while slowly getting kissed by the sun, then chase each other through the ocean water until the hard shells and sand rise up to greet them. Harry’s laughing, holding onto a sand dollar he found until he feels a twang of guilt in his chest and carefully puts it back after showing Zayn.

Zayn tells Harry he’s gotta run now, take a shower, but he enjoyed this. They walk back to the houses together, weaving through the traffic of beach goers and tourists with giant beachballs and suntan lotion who are only there temporarily.

Harry stops to look over at Zayn before he rinses his sandy feet off under the spout outside of his place, only to find that Zayn’s doing the exact same thing.

He smiles.

***

The house standing in front of them looks different from the crowded, colorful rows along the beach. Harry can’t quite put his finger on why, except that they’re in a more densely residential area. Music drifting out from inside distracts him from thinking too much.

It’s been longer than he can count since he’s been to a party, one like this, but when Zayn texted him days ago that it’d be “super chill” and some of his mates would be coming, Harry thought he should accept the invitation and go along. It'd been part of a string of long texts they started - everything from memes to family pictures and little things in every day they want to talk about.

The lights are bright enough to see glimpses of people pass through the front windows. A few abandoned cups and shoes are scattered across the grass of the front yard.

Harry runs both of his hands through his hair, probably making it look worse. Zayn’s not far behind him, thick boots quietly hitting against the old concrete. He turns around to make eye contact and Zayn gives him a friendly look, raising his brows and barely sticking out his tongue. Harry shakes his head, turning away to hide a smile.

He’s been doing it a lot lately.

When they cross the porch and enter through the open doorway, there’s a barrage of scents and sounds. The beat of the music is quick and lends to half the room dancing around to its lead, bodies pressed together, arms lifted above their heads. Others are standing in corners talking, smoking various substances and laughing. Harry doesn’t stare.

They make it to the tight hallway past the mouth of the small kitchen, its counters covered in different sized bottles and containers, and Harry can smell Zayn’s earthy cologne next to him.

Someone finally recognizes Zayn and calls out his name.

“Hey, mate!” The accent is clearly Irish.

“Niall.” Zayn grins back immediately. He moves to say hello and grasp Niall’s upper arm in a friendly embrace. It takes a second for Niall to notice Harry standing there, probably looking at them like a deer in the woods.

He’s about to open his mouth when Zayn cuts him off rather animatedly.

“Oh! This is Harry.”

Harry leans over to shakes Niall’s hand. He smiles slightly.

“We, um, live together.” The wrong words tumble out of Harry’s mouth before he can stop them, the muscles in his cheeks starting to twitch.

Niall lets out a short laugh. He shrugs. Harry rubs his forehead.

“I mean -”

“Harry actually lives next door,” Zayn chuckles as he carefully corrects him, and Harry feels his face warm up a bit.

 _No harm done though, is there?_ he thinks to himself, looking away, pretending to be fascinated by the floral wallpaper in front of him all of a sudden.

“Cool. Good to meet ya. Lucky bastards, the both of you. Living on the beach.”

Harry nods to that.

The social clump in the hallway expands by a few people; one guy stops by for a second to say hello whilst getting pulled away by the hand. Zayn introduces Jack who has red hair and an impressively trimmed beard and Bazil, who’s wearing a vintage skull t-shirt. They’re carrying open bottles of beer and equally, if not more than, visibly covered in tattoos as Zayn.

Harry’s lost when they start talking about some radio show he’s never heard of. Zayn asks Niall where Liam is, but Niall says he hasn’t chatted with him in a few weeks.

It’s slowly getting louder inside. Harry really wants a drink now.

Throat parched, he’s about to mention it to Zayn, who’s turned away, instead of wandering off on his own. But then Niall lowers his voice against the symphony of chatter. Harry barely manages to catch the syllables.

“Sara is here,” Niall says, “I saw her out back.”

Jack hears it too, somehow, and claps Zayn on the back knowingly.

“C’mon. It's been long enough."

Harry’s brow furrows.

Zayn laughs at both of them, but oddly enough doesn’t say anything in return. He finally turns back towards Harry and jabs a thumb in the direction of the kitchen they passed when they first came in.

“Get a drink?”

“Or two, yeah.”

“Don't think anyone’s counting,” Zayn says with an amused smile, nudging Harry lightly with his elbow, even though Harry’s not smiling anymore. He goes straight to the strawberry jello shots on the counter despite not knowing who’s made them, his lips turned down in a nonchalant expression.

After that, he reaches for a clean cup and mixes himself a rum and coke. Nearby, Zayn fiddles with a heavy, unopened bottle of whiskey before pouring a small portion into his own cup. Harry clears his throat after taking a generous sip.

It tastes sharp and sweet.

“Hey,” Zayn finally says, “I’ll, uh, be back in a minute. Hang out, yeah?”

“Sure,” is all Harry answers. He feels tense now, in his neck and shoulders particularly, and it’s annoying him. Maybe he should’ve stayed home after all. Doing what though? Watching _Chopped_ reruns and screaming about the ice cream maker for the millionth time?

He watches Zayn leave the kitchen then does the same, as more strangers file in.

Harry takes a seat on the empty stairs. Thankfully, the carpet is soft under his ass. He rubs his jeans at the thigh and continues to drink. No one approaches him or looks familiar in any way. A couple heading upstairs stumbles past him like he’s a ghost, giggling and whispering extremely dirty things to each other.

Harry doesn’t know how much time has passed before he lifts his head from where he was resting it on his arms and knees, the cup dangling between his legs. Zayn’s back and in the kitchen again. This time he’s not alone.

There’s something personal about the way they’re standing together, one of her hands at his lower hip, finger crooked through a loop along the waistband of his gray pants. She slowly tucks some long, brunette hair behind her multi-pierced ear while he speaks only to her, exactly like in a cheesy rom-com, and Harry rolls his eyes. He goes to drink more of the brilliant concoction, but finds in a quick moment that his cup is completely empty.

He scoffs.

There’s a new pang in his gut, when he glances over again and sees Zayn throw his head back in pure laughter. The words he happened to overhear earlier from Zayn’s friends bounce around his mind like a boxing ring.

Harry finally stands up and walks around the base of the stairs, then leans into the kitchen enough to toss his cup into an open-mouthed trash can. It’s just when he’s reaching for a brand-new bottle of vodka to take with him (or at least, he thinks so judging by the label) that Zayn sees him.

“Sorry to interrupt. Have a great night,” Harry manages, with a smile that doesn’t feel like him, turning away and maneuvering through the foyer and out to the front yard as quickly as possible. He wants the fresh air.

Harry presses the hard glass to lips, lid curled in the other hand, telling himself not to drink too much and not to worry. Zayn’s doing his own thing as he always has. Harry’s got little say in it after all, no reason to feel any doubt.

Zayn’s voice behind him is clear against the cool summer air.

“Harry!”

Harry takes a big gulp and it burns his throat instantly, mixing on his tongue with the remnant taste of rum. He turns around after making it almost halfway down the block. The music’s gone, so is the light besides the faint, calculated glow from the streetlamps overhead. He points at Zayn with the vodka bottle still in hand.

“She’s cute. You should go back.”

Zayn looks confused.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere.”

“Hmm.”

“Was that Sara?” Harry asks. He wonders how they met.

Zayn lets out a soft sigh, sudden and choked.

“Yeah, that's her. We were catching up.” Pause. “Not really my type. ”

Each of the words is clear even with the strong lilt of Zayn’s accent. He sounds angry. Is he angry? Harry tilts his head and takes another two sips, before coughing into his arm and saying “Okay.” Zayn’s getting that look in his eyes again, one Harry’s only seen when standing this close.

“Maybe walk a bit? Stuffy back there.”

“Yeah, I wanna walk,” Harry mumbles, looking down to try and fit the plastic cap back onto the mouth of the vodka bottle. He thinks he’s had enough.

Zayn’s quiet and everything’s still except for Harry’s free arm swinging around in the air and the mixed clack of their footsteps against the damp asphalt. Harry walks a few paces ahead.

Doesn’t know where exactly they’re going.

Zayn digs into his pocket at some point and pulls out a cigarette. He rolls it between his fingers, but doesn’t light it right away. Harry dances over, eyes locked on it, singing along to no particular tune and lifts it out of Zayn’s hand. He puts it between his own lips and drapes an arm over Zayn’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“What’s your type then?” Harry says and it comes out jumbled and unclear, the white cigarette moving up and down as he speaks.

“My type?” Zayn echoes.

He takes the cigarette out of Harry’s mouth.

“Yup. Your ideal partner.”

It seems as if the last word zaps Zayn with invisible electricity because Zayn’s walking slows to a stop, looking around at where they are instead. Several blocks over from the party. He peers to the right, into nothing but darkness, and maybe wonders how far away the water is.

Harry releases his grip as Zayn looks down, placing the cigarette into his teeny shirt pocket. He gives up, deciding to sit down on the curb under a circle of light, exhausted and veins slowly flowing with alcohol, and Zayn, always surprising Harry with the way he puts himself in the middle of everything, sits down next to him. Zayn presses his heels tight against the curb, rests his arms on his knees, and looks down at his shoes.

“Well, I’d say tall... and funny, but no knock-knock jokes ‘cause those are awful. Good heart as well. I dunno. Just someone I get on with.”

A smile brushes itself upon his lips like he’s thinking of someone in particular. There’s shadow cast down on part of his face and a twinkle in his eyes. Nothing about Zayn is any less stunning in the dark.

“Someone beautiful, brave.”

A car drives past, headlights on, and disappears around the corner.

Harry stares back at him, trying not to focus on how close together they’re sitting but it’s the only thing that seems to be on his mind. Today, and days before, and at this rate, days after. Like lightning between them. Zayn rests his cheek on his folded arms now, looking up at Harry sideways. He lifts his shoulders then drops them.

Somehow in the false promise of alcohol Zayn looks shy and small past his long eyelashes, even though Harry knows he’s so much more than that. He waits like a stone for Harry to get himself together, waits for things to pass because he knows they will. It sinks in second by second that Zayn could’ve easily run back to the party instead of following Harry to the edge of nowhere.

“I…”

He doesn’t know what to say.

“I guess that’s what I’d want, too.”

***

Harry’s blasting one of the new Coldplay tunes on a late Thursday night, a week later, when he hears a meek chime telling him there’s a text. He sighs, feeling tired from a day that still hasn’t ended. The song’s got a bit of bass to it, so he grins like a kid who’s gotten a good toy in his cereal box when he reads it:

_“Go to sleep ;)”_

He replies with nothing but the old man emoji, to which Zayn’s immediate response is two poop emojis and a set of music notes. Harry hesitates, thumbs hovering over the screen.

 _“Come over and make me?”_ he types out, even though it doesn't quite make sense.

There’s silence then, except for the painfully memorable voice of Chris Martin filling the room to its brim. Harry sets his phone down on the counter. It lies still. His brow tightens. He doesn’t want to chase Zayn away, not after things have been going (mostly, let’s admit) well and he’s really, properly enjoyed his company. But they haven’t put anything on the table yet, metaphorically speaking, and part of Harry’s desperate to know what the truth is.

Just then the doorbell rings. It’s a pretentious sound that his ex loved and it rings again just after the first time, so he calls out “Alright!” and moves to answer it.

When Harry pulls the door open, Zayn is standing there.

He’s got an equally tired smile on his lips and an unzipped hoodie pulled up over his head, which he goes to push back. His hair looks neater, with more edges at the top; the sides of his head seem to have been shaved down slightly.

Harry says hi and invites Zayn inside. His nerves are making him feel stiff again. In contrast, Zayn moves past Harry without a second thought, half-elbowing him in the process, to get to the velvet couch. He seems to be looking for something in particular, leaving Harry in a bit of a confused daze, and as Harry watches with his arms crossed, he finally notices a curt glance towards the built-in sound system.

No shit, Styles. He’s actually going to do it.

“Hey!”

He abandons his terrible posture.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warns, with a light, pathetic squeal.

They spot the tiny silver remote at the exact same time, sitting innocently on the side table at the other end of the couch like a prized pig. It takes a moment, nearing the end of a song that Harry knows well enough to have the lyrics memorized, for them to fall onto the couch together.

They wrestle for a moment, Harry with his weight unexpectedly on top of Zayn’s, his knees instinctively split between straddling Zayn at an uncomfortable angle and pressing against the fabric of the couch.

Zayn freezes. His chest is heaving clearly enough for Harry to see. Harry looks down at himself, feels his cheeks start to burn a shade of red at the very sight, and gives up with a barely audible exhale.

He moves to sit on his own cushion.

Zayn’s still lying on his back, one arm raised in the air. The remote’s pressed against his palm beneath his fingers and there’s a perfect sliver of skin showing itself from under the hem of Zayn’s shirt. Harry expects there to be silence too, as the song finally ends and transitions into another tune, but then there’s laughter, soft and honest.

“What?” Harry says.

Zayn sits up, the beautiful skin disappears much to Harry’s disappointment, and his gaze snaps up to Zayn’s face.

“You’ve won. Go ahead.” Harry raises both hands. “Turn it off.”

“Nah.”

Harry pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth at this. It’s such a bad habit that sometimes ends in blood, but God, he can’t help it. It lets him think clearly. He unfolds his legs so that both of his feet touch the floor. The joints of his knees crack faintly.

“I didn’t come here for that,” Zayn admits with a slight grin, returning the remote to its original position and turning back to Harry.

Harry continues to watch him.

“What for then?”

Zayn slings an elbow onto the back of the couch, along its great spine, and he looks down while he contemplates an answer, long fingers beginning to fiddle with a loose thread. He shrugs.

“You.”

Harry’s heart takes off like a betting horse in a race, thumping knowingly behind the taut strings inside his chest.

“Well, I live here. For now, anyway. Guess I can’t afford to stay forever as the rent is bloody astronomical -”

Zayn laughs again.

It sounds wonderful. Harry sort of knows he’s being a shit and wasting time, but he needs the extra seconds, needs to digest this moment in particular. He does nothing but breathe in and out as best he can, as Zayn finally leaves his too distant perch and moves towards Harry, the cushions sinking under their combined weight.

The air feels warmer, thicker, and suddenly Harry finds that Zayn is sitting right next to him like he does.

“Can we chat?” Harry asks calmly, after a pause.

“Alright.”

“Me first?’

Zayn nods slightly.

Harry clears his throat and presses an open palm against the knee of his black jeans. There’s several intentional slashes across the legs. It seems a little preposterous, that anyone would buy clothing already looking frayed and worn; they’re one of Harry’s favorite pairs though. He does things like that.

Harry looks up again.  

“I’ve been happy spending time with you, Zayn.” He swallows quickly then continues. “I dunno what you think about it and I’ve realized that I want to.”

 _I need to know how you feel_ , is what Harry doesn’t say, but hopes that Zayn hears it anyway.

“It’s 1 am, Harry, and I’m sitting on your couch.”

“Yeah,” he says back and it comes out shaky.

“It sure hasn’t been boring.”

Zayn smiles at the memories they’ve already collected together and stops to rub his thumb against his bottom lip in thought. Harry stares at the way the pink is touched but doesn’t disappear. He waits for the next phrase.

“Look, I wasn’t messing about when I said -” Zayn inhales as he looks up at the ceiling, exposing the sharp curves of his jaw and neck, but there’s nothing above. God, Harry can’t get over how effortlessly gorgeous he is.

Zayn lowers his gaze and focuses on Harry again.

”I’m right here. If you want me to be.”

“You are,” Harry says, like it isn’t a question anymore.

“Yes,” Zayn answers, like it isn’t one either, and Harry nods in understanding before uncurling one of his hands. He watches as Zayn reaches out towards it with ease, letting his fingers dance and brush against Harry’s palm.

They sit together just so, the clock on the wall ticking faintly and Harry rubbing at his own forehead with his free hand, until Zayn pulls Harry towards himself. It feels so easy, so natural, that Harry can’t believe how long he half-believed otherwise.

Harry lets himself sit on top of Zayn, properly this time, knees tucked against the outer side of Zayn’s delicate thighs. He’s trying to keep his expression light, lock the nerves in the deepest basement of his mind, but something must slip through the cracks. Maybe it’s the way he swallows very slowly and parts his lips.

Zayn leans in close enough to examine the sculpture of Harry’s face so intimately Harry thinks he might explode into a million pieces. He brings a hand up to Harry’s cheek and presses his thumb barely into the skin. He swipes across.

“Were you jealous?”

“When?”

“That night at the party.”

Harry wrinkles his nose.

“That obvious?”

“Yeah,” Zayn explains, “like, granted you were rather drunk, but you seemed sad. I didn’t understand what happened until you left actually. I got into bed and... I couldn’t sleep for hours. Kept thinking about you, about everything.”

“Come to any interesting conclusions?”

Zayn pauses, then nods wholeheartedly.

“That I want to kiss you.”

His voice is soft.

"Can I?"

It takes Harry a moment to process the words, something in his body unhinging and slowly relaxing as every fiber, tiny constellations of life, call out at once to move into the unknown. He murmurs a clear yes and lets go of Zayn’s warm hand. Still in a daze, he waits exactly there until Zayn presses his mouth against his.

It feels like a dream.

The first kiss lasts forever before it expands into two, then three.

Harry eventually starts to press his weight against Zayn’s body with a brighter energy, hands cupping at Zayn’s rough jaw which starts to burn the corners of Harry’s lips ever so slightly. He lets out a breathless laugh and rests his forehead against Zayn’s.

“I am really comfortable with you, it’s mad,” Harry admits.

Crinkles appear at Zayn’s eyes as he whispers out, “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, kissing Zayn again, because he wants to and because he can.

Harry pulls away eventually. One of Zayn’s hands has crept up Harry’s back, the other is resting at the belt of Harry’s jeans. The music’s completely stopped, but it’s a good thing that Harry doesn’t give a shit. One of the long doors is open, letting the ocean breeze freely slink in and out.

“My bed’s upstairs,” Harry tells Zayn a bit numbly.

Zayn chuckles.

“How easy d’you think I am, Styles?”

Harry blushes and says nothing, just shakes his head a little. He doesn’t know if he meant to say that particular thought out loud. They chase each other up the stairs nonetheless, meeting at the landing where Zayn slides a gentle arm around Harry’s waist, like they’ve done this a thousand times in another life, and pulls him close.

It doesn’t last however as they break apart. Harry goes to open the balcony doors in the master bedroom while Zayn dips into the en suite bathroom. He stands in the wind, leaning his shoulder against the frame, feeling goosebumps start to appear all over his arms because he’s wearing a t-shirt with short sleeves. It must more than that this time, however.

His feet are nice and cool against the ground.

When Zayn comes back, he doesn’t touch Harry right away, instead turns to look out at the rushing, ceaseless tide. Harry wonders what he’s thinking now.

“You’re staring,” Zayn says finally, turning back to Harry and meeting his eyes. There’s a twitch at his mouth.

Harry uncrosses his arms.

“No, ‘m not.”

“Yeah, you definitely are.”

Silence.

“You’re super hot. Sue me.”

Zayn looks Harry up and down in return, before shrugging lazily.

“Eh, you’re alright,” he concludes.

Harry rubs lightly at his chest because of the sudden jab at his vanity of all things, until their smiles at the shared joke and nervous breaths somehow lead to kissing again. Zayn presses his mouth harder and faster against Harry’s this time, and the thing is, Harry doesn’t want him to stop.

***

The first time they had sex, not the same night that Zayn confessed his feelings for Harry because it didn’t feel right yet, it was messy and quick. Harry remembers being pushed up against a wall in the hallway, feeling content and wild, as Zayn jerked him off with a steady grip. One of the plastic frames hanging on a hook nearby fell down in between Harry's moans and sent them into a fit of laughter.

The times after that were slower, more gentle - until today.

Zayn’s lying against Harry’s chest, hot cheek pressed to the skin near the curve of Harry’s collarbone. He feels a bit heavy, half the weight of his body on Harry’s, but Harry doesn’t mind. In fact, he thinks he might stay here forever.

Zayn sits up, finally detaching himself much to Harry’s faint whine of protest. The air around them is still warm with passion, but seeps into the spaces between their now separated bodies and it feels refreshing somehow.

“Was that okay?” Zayn asks quietly.

“More than,” Harry says back, also feeling flush and searching Zayn’s expression, “You look beautiful riding my cock.”

This makes Zayn smile, but Harry can tell he’s tired - exhausted, diluted red painted onto his cheekbones, strands of hair stuck to his forehead. Harry reaches up to touch it with his fingertips.

So, so lovely.

He desperately wants to return the favor, despite that his body feels too relaxed at the moment to move at all. Zayn happily leans in to kiss him, eyes locked on Harry’s sore lips, and Harry takes it as a sign that he’ll get the chance to.

Zayn squeezes Harry’s thigh.

“Thank you,” Zayn says out of nowhere.

Harry tilts his head and moves his hand to rub gently rub the soft inside of Zayn’s firm bicep.

“Babe?”

“Just this.” Zayn squirms then, shifting under the covers like he’s been thinking for awhile and wants to get the words out right. “Being patient even when I’m terrible, even when you are. For letting me talk and exist.”

“Giving you good orgasms, too. Don’t forget that.” Harry grins.

Zayn laughs.

“I won’t.”

They’re sitting up now, facing each other, half covered by stark white fabric. Harry thinks it would make a beautiful photograph.

He breathes in through his mouth and out of his nose, looking away for the moment. Light is barely coming in between the cracks of the balcony doors and sheer curtains. He feels Zayn’s hand next to his, pinky fingers barely touching. Thinking of what he’s about to say next, what’s about to become even more real, makes Harry’s heartbeat race again.

“Um,” Harry says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Zayn Malik.” Harry pauses for the drama. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

“Hmm… no.”

“What?”

It’s silent for a moment. Zayn presses a hand to his chest as he laughs again. “Shit, you should see your face right now. I’m just messin'.”

“Oh.”

“Of course I will. Although,” Zayn continues, “I’m a bit pissed you got to ask first.”

“You were thinking about it?”

“About the future, yeah.”

Harry bites his lip. “I… I want to be with you. I want to keep doing this.”

“Me too, _boyfriend_.”

Harry feels himself getting hard again the longer Zayn cradles him with two soft hands and kisses him, like he’s hungry for nothing but the touch of Harry’s skin. Harry swallows and whispers when they break apart for a moment, foreheads pressed tightly together, that he wants to be fucked this time.

He even says please.

Zayn nods and reaches over to the nightstand for another condom. Harry doesn’t hold back when he comes, crying out, feeling a colliding explosion of both emotion and sensation within his body, his lungs expanding to accommodate being alive - and sharing the beauty of it with someone else.

***

“Sure you wanna do this?”

“Yeah.” Harry huffs. “I’ve got loads anyway.”

“Here goes,” Zayn says simply and Harry thinks it’s a lovely sound.

He’s seated backwards in a client chair with an eerily smooth surface, shirt off, in the middle of a busy shop. All he can think about are his boyfriend’s gloved hands against his skin, touching him firmly but also like he’s made of glass. The needle’s been dipped in ink and is hovering behind him, above his shoulder blade. He tries to meet Zayn’s eyes. The angle’s too difficult and it strains his neck, so he looks straight ahead and people-watches instead.

_Remind me how much experience you have again?_

He remembers saying this to Zayn one night after a quick dinner, before which Zayn chased Harry around the kitchen with a raw salmon, and looking through Zayn’s surprisingly impressive portfolio yet again.

 _A few years_ , Zayn said.

It was Harry’s idea, to take a symbol still new but that he cared so much about, something dear in an uncertain existence, and let it live on his shoulder for eternity. They kissed for awhile after that, then called the shop on speaker to officially put Harry’s name in the books.

An hour or so passes. Zayn announces he’s done working. He’d asked Harry a few times if he felt any pain during the constant buzz and needle sinking into his body, but Harry didn’t think so and shook his head. It actually felt nice.

Harry waits as the lines are carefully wiped down and begin to settle into his skin for good.

“Have a look,” Zayn tells him, finally, the snap of his tools being set aside and gloves coming off not far behind. Harry feels an excited twist in his stomach. He already knows the tattoo looks brilliant, or, on the off chance that they both fucked up and it’s terrible, at least they’re in it together.

He stands in front of the long mirror hanging in the hallway and turns his body to see over his shoulder better. His fingers press against the top of his shoulder for a moment. The sand dollar feels good over raw skin, looks even better despite the simplicity at first glance, and shines under the light.

“Good?”

“Amazing. You’re amazing.” Harry exhales, with a trace of relief. “I want another one.”

Zayn smiles.

“You’ve got time.”

***

Harry stays in L.A. with Zayn, promptly taking over Zayn’s king-sized bed with his long but gentle limbs when they fall asleep together - or when they’re up all night, restless and in love. He can’t believe how easy it is to let Zayn touch him everywhere. Louis’ place next door sells on the market in less than a month. An older couple from Australia moves in and Harry politely declines all invitations for brunch.

He stays long enough for Zayn to feel like he’s gotten to know some folks around the city and improved his art, and long enough for both of them to save a bit of money. He doesn’t want to uproot Zayn right away just because he wants to chase the sun. They take surfing lessons together, make lunch with the breeze, and sometimes, when Harry can convince Zayn to, go dancing on weekends.

But then one day Zayn finally says in a quiet voice, while Harry’s drying dishes, that he misses home, misses the familiar cliffs and the heavy rain; and Harry does too, so much, so they decide to move back to England. Except this time, they settle into a place of their own.

They get married almost three years later in an intimate ceremony, with only their closest family and friends. Zayn cries when he sees his dad in his own tuxedo and Harry’s heart overflows with pride and happiness.

It doesn’t feel like home, sometime after, when they watch the sunset together, the wavering, beautiful shades of orange and red. Zayn’s hugging Harry from behind and pressing tiny kisses against his neck.

It _is_ home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Tumblr Post: Coming Soon (after author reveals).
> 
> edit: RIP Robin Twist. June 2017.


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